y just curious to see what he looks like first. They'll
be disappointed."

Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to observe his surroundings.

It was a mistake. "He's out of it," the first speaker said, and Zarwell
allowed his eyes to open fully.

The voice, he saw, belonged to the big man who had bruised him against
the locker at the spaceport. Irrelevantly he wondered how he knew now
that it had been a spaceport.

His captor's broad face jeered down at Zarwell. "Have a good sleep?" he
asked with mock solicitude. Zarwell did not deign to acknowledge that he
heard.

The big man turned. "You can tell the Chief he's awake," he said.
Zarwell followed his gaze to where a younger man, with a blond lock of
hair on his forehead, stood behind him. The youth nodded and went out,
while the other pulled a chair up to the side of Zarwell's cot.

While their attention was away from him Zarwell had unobtrusively
loosened his bonds as much as possible with arm leverage. As the big man
drew his chair nearer, he made the hand farthest from him tight and
compact and worked it free of the leather loop. He waited.

The big man belched. "You're supposed to be great stuff in a situation
like this," he said, his smoke-tan face splitting in a grin that
revealed large square teeth. "How about giving me a sample?"

"You're a yellow-livered bastard," Zarwell told him.

The grin faded from the oily face as the man stood up. He leaned over
the cot--and Zarwell's left hand shot up and locked about his throat,
joined almost immediately by the right.

The man's mouth opened and he tried to yell as he threw himself
frantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When that
failed to break the grip he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his
fist at Zarwell's head.

Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it
there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the
body slide to the floor.

The straps about his thighs came loose with little effort.

The analyst dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief. "The episodes
are beginning to tie together," he said, with an attempt at
nonchalance. "The next couple should do it."

Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete
return, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came and he
returned his attention to his more immediate problem.

Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth
jus